


Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

by ssclassof56



Series: World Enough and Time [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9409607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: For the MFU Scrapbook-2016 Valentine's Challenge on LiveJournal.The prompt: A very romantic, mild-het Illya story, with a little angst on the side.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrua7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/gifts).



> This story reflects mrua7's inspiration, from April to Mark's band.

1970

The gymnasium was undergoing a transformation. During the last 24 hours, agents and personnel, peeking in with eager anticipation, had glimpsed the stage lights being hung, the dais erected and the dance floor laid out. UNCLE Headquarters NY had reason to celebrate. For several weeks fear had gripped the offices, but Waverly was alive and recovering. Now Napoleon Solo, their temporary acting chief, had authorized a party to relieve the tension.

Illya Kuryakin, collar open and sleeves rolled, turned a screwdriver and wondered again how he had been swept up into these preparations. He should be catching up on journals or working in the lab, not assembling the framework for questionable party activities. Napoleon swore that the Old Man had given his approval for the event, yet Illya doubted all the details had been shared in those regular meetings at Waverly’s bedside.

After tightening the final screw, he stretched his stiff back and ran his hands through his hair. Then he noticed the white smear on his palm. “The paint is still wet,” he said in frustration.

“You must have found the touch-ups Phil mentioned.” Faustina Pemberley sat cross-legged near the Russian’s feet, attaching a skirt to the base of the stall.

“I don't appreciate sloppiness from Section VIII,” Illya said. “Not when our lives depend on their precision.”

“They're just party decorations, solnyshko,” she said, fastening the last section of fabric. The profusion of red lips echoed the lettering that spanned the top of the booth: ‘Kiss Kiss.’ She leaned back on her palms to view the completed project and smiled in satisfaction. “Everyone should be cut a bit of slack right now.”

“There is paint in my hair.”

Faustina opened her mouth to remark, then, looking up at his disgruntled expression, closed it with a sigh. Her smile returned, tinged with amusement. “Let's get it out before it dries.”

She held up her hand for assistance, and Illya frowned more deeply at this reminder of the injuries she had sustained in Waverly’s rescue. He pulled her to her feet, forgetting the paint on his hand. She looked at her white-stained fingers for a long moment, then waved them in his face in mock outrage. On another day, he would have responded in kind, but he was in no mood for games. Instead he rolled his eyes and walked off toward the locker rooms. Faustina watched his back, a tiny crease between her brows, then shrugged and followed.

Emerging from the women’s locker room minutes later, Faustina found a team from Section VIII carrying in a series of large, cloth-draped panels. Her eyes gleamed in excitement as they began to set them up around the room.

Illya rejoined her, muttering to himself. “I could not get it all.”

She held up a wet cloth. “I know.”

The tight line of his lips relaxed, and he unfolded a chair from a nearby stack. Straddling it, he crossed his arms along the back and rested his chin on them. Faustina picked up a section of blond hair, long even by Illya’s usual standards, and wiped at the paint. “I thought Napoleon told you to get this cut,” she said.

“He did. I have determined not to bow to his bourgeois tyranny.”

She raised her brows. “Vive la révolution,” she said with only a hint of a tremor in her voice. “But I do see why he thinks fighting THRUSH with hair in your eyes would be a handicap.”

He slanted her a withering glance, which she met with equanimity. “All finished,” she declared moments later.

“Thank you.” He ran his hands through the damp mop, brushing it back, but the bangs immediately flopped down over one eye.

Faustina bit back a smile. “My kit’s in my office. I could take care of it right now. Just trim it up to your brows and maybe even find your ears again.”

She drew his bangs aside as she spoke, her fingertips brushing his temple and the top of his ear. Illya sat very still, not even breathing. The only movement was the pulse beating at the base of his throat. “I doubt one mission in a salon qualifies you,” he said finally, his voice rough.

“Vidal said I have natural talent.”

His traitorous mind conjured an image of her fingers buried in his hair. A surge of longing followed, and he nearly fell out of the chair in an effort to back away from both the thoughts and their instigator. “I'll get it cut when Mr. Waverly tells me and not a moment before,” he said, wincing at the harshness in his tone.

She regarded him thoughtfully, her grey eyes puzzled and wary. “Suit yourself,” she said and tossed the wet cloth at him.

Illya was relieved when her attention was called by one of the men from Section VIII. Two large panels now stood against each wall, their protective covers removed. “How do they look, Miss Pemberley?” the young tech asked shyly.

Faustina clapped her hands. “Phil, they're everything I hoped for.” She gave him a quick hug. “Be sure to pay me a visit at the booth tonight. On the house.” Blushing to the roots of his hair, Phil whistled to his team and marched them triumphantly from the gymnasium.

“Another conquest?" Illya asked.

“Don't be an ass,” she advised as she moved in a slow circle, taking in the total effect of the panels.

The gymnasium had transformed into a Pop Art gallery. Each giant canvas captured a snapshot of Sections I through VIII in Roy Lichtenstein fashion. Faustina approached the homage to Communications, in which a comic-book blonde spoke into a microphone, ‘Channel D is open.’

Illya made a circuit of the room, finishing up at Faustina’s side. “You don't find it degrading for us to be portrayed in this trivialized manner?” he asked.

“You’d prefer social realism?” she countered. “A gargantuan mural of square-jawed agents industriously at work? Seems more suited to a post office than a party.”

He frowned. “I’d prefer none at all. This whole thing is frivolous and excessive.”

“All the best parties are, solnyshko,” she said, starting to test dance steps. “We all need to let off steam, and most of us can't do that in the lab.”

“No, you're going to do it at a kissing booth.” He kept his eyes resolutely on her face and not her swaying hips.

She stopped dancing and rubbed her thigh. “Now who’s being bourgeois? The money is for Waverly's favorite charities. You’d raise a fortune, you know, if you could reconcile it with your dignity.”

First he’d need to reconcile himself to her kissing a long line of men from UNCLE. “I defer to greater expertise,” he said. “You and Napoleon are far more qualified.”

Her eyes flashed, but when she spoke her tone was light. “That's not the word around the water cooler.”

“My kisses weren't rated as ‘better than winning Le Mans.’”

“Purely Italian effusiveness,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Nicolò said that about all his fiancées.” Her smile, fondly reminiscent, faded at his sour expression, and her brows lifted. “Didn't a girl once faint at the mere thought of kissing you? That’s qualification enough.”

“She was overcome by dehydration, not by me,” he insisted. “What about the film that was delayed because the director had to be repeatedly pulled from your arms?”

She rolled her eyes. “That was over a dozen years ago. And my scrapbooks are officially above your clearance for a while.”

“Set the production back by weeks and millions of francs. It's still in the press.”

“Only because the film’s producer just died, and they dug up his ancient feud with Armand to pad their copy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Since when do you read the tabloids?”

Illya colored. The tiny photo on the gossip rag had drawn his eye like a magnet, and he had read the story several times before forcing himself to throw the issue away. “Since when do you get your hair set?” he countered, changing the subject abruptly.

Her hand flew to her hair. The brown curls, usually worn without artifice, were teased and smoothed into a high-crowned mass of waves framing her face. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re not the only one who can offer a critique.”

She stared at him in consternation. Then her lips curved, a sultry smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Fair enough. Let me guess your objections.” She took a step forward, shortening the distance between them. “Too bourgeois?”

“One could argue that.”

“I see.” She drew another step closer. “How about frivolous?”

“Certainly.”

“And excessive?”

“Without a doubt.” He stood toe to toe with her now. He could smell her familiar perfume and something new, which he guessed to be the hairspray.

“Anything else?” Her proximity was a challenge, daring him to back away again.

This was a game he would play. He reached up, and with the back of his fingers, gently traced the fall of her bangs and the stiff wave of hair skirting her cheek. Ever so slightly, he felt her lean into his touch. How simple it would be to move his hand to the nape of her neck and draw her to him. How difficult to know if that would that be a victory or a defeat.

He paused his hand at her jawline and flicked a glossy curl. “The style is hard and artificial. Like hers.” He gestured to the panel with the comic-book blonde, then let his hand fall. “Why did you change it?”

Faustina blinked and visibly gathered herself. “I was feeling restless. April suggested it.”

“Restless,” he said, giving voice to his fears, “or nostalgic?”

“What?”

She stepped back. It was a matter of inches, but the rift he'd been sensing between them seemed to widen into a chasm. He usually welcomed that distance from others, allowing very few to bridge it. With Faustina the separation was disorienting, and he didn't like the feeling.

He leaned toward her, his voice rising. “The hair. The party. The…recreational activities.” His eyes darted to the kissing booth and back. “A pattern emerges.”

“And you're so good at patterns,” she drawled, crossing her arms. “So you’ve run me through your spectrometer, have you? Just what is it that I'm feeling so nostalgic for?”

She regarded him coolly, her eyes veiled and remote. Where were the waving hands? The verbal fireworks? The colorful array of foreign epithets? Anxious, ill-considered words spilled out of him. “Life before UNCLE. You admit to restlessness. Are you bored at last? Your history suggests a change is overdue.”

“Long overdue,” Faustina whispered. “So, one moment I'm yearning for the past, the next I'm restless for the future. You have me coming and going. Very disorienting.”

“Perhaps you’re out of practice,” Illya scoffed. He barely recognized this marble figure, who stared back like a stranger yet spoke his thoughts aloud. “Best to start slowly, in that case. Revisit some past triumphs before seeking new worlds to conquer.”

“How poetic. Any suggestions?”

She should be putting him in his place, not provoking him to more acid words. A dozen responses collided in his brain. Which one would draw her out, lighting her eyes for battle and setting her off like a Congreve rocket? He answered, “Dubreton?”

“Etienne has just been married.”

“So had that French director.”

Anger lit her eyes, but it was a cold fury, chilling his heart. “This trial is over, Tovarisch Kuryakin.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

“Faustina, wait.”

“Go to Hell.”


	2. Chapter 2

Faustina stormed into April Dancer’s office. The quiet shushing of the door was an unsatisfactory accompaniment to her entrance, so she slammed one of the desk drawers before flinging herself into the chair.

April and Mark Slate exchanged a glance. “That's my top complaint about this building,” April said from her perch on the edge of the desk. “No doors to slam.”

“I'll take myself off then, shall I?” Mark said, unfolding his long frame from a chair.

“Yes, darling, I think that's best,” April replied.

“Must go practice my pucker, in any event. Don't want to sprain my lips tonight.” He made a show of stretching his mouth.

Faustina laughed in spite of her mood, wondering why it couldn't be Mark who tempted her to end her monasticism. She asked, “Music all set?”

“All set. Don't forget, sound check at 7:30 sharp. I expect the newest birds in The Bird Watchers to be prompt.”

“We’ll be there, fearless leader. Ta-ta.” April waved at Mark as he left, then shifted to face Faustina. “Now spill.”

“Slight change in our afternoon plans. Are you free yet?”

“Yes, Mark and I just finished some paperwork. What's the hurry?”

“I need a metalsmith, if your shoulder is up to it.”

April threw her good arm in the air. “Hallelujah, she’s wearing the Rabanne! But why the sudden decision? I've only been after you to wear it for a year.”

“Illya’s an ass.”

“Ah, I see,” April said sagely, wrinkling her nose at the choice of words. “What did he say this time?”

Faustina chose her words carefully. April was a good friend, but her knowledge was still limited to the story Waverly had concocted for Faustina's personnel file. “He insulted the party décor. And my hair. They’re both hard and artificial.” She picked up a pen and began to twirl it over her fingers. “He hasn't seen anything yet.”

“Well, look at the bright side. You'll finally be making good on the small fortune you paid.”

“It was hardly my idea. ‘You look divine, ‘T. You simply must buy it.’” Her imitation brought a smile to April’s lips. “Lesson learned. Cocktails after we hit the boutiques, not before.”

“As I recall, that weekend began with a similar complaint about Illya. You know there are better ways to relieve the tension between you two,” April said with an exaggerated wink.

Faustina rolled her eyes. “Not this again.”

April continued undaunted. “Just look at me and Napoleon. No promises, no questions. Just blissful interludes.” She smiled dreamily, lost in recollection, until Faustina prodded her with the pen. “And look at you two. All suspense and tension, but none of the fun and games.”

“A’, dear, I medaled in those games. Took the gold, went pro, blew out a knee and retired.”

“Honestly, ‘T,” April exclaimed, shaking her head, “that is the most depressing description of l’amour I've ever heard.”

Faustina shrugged. “Besides, I'm not the ‘No promises, no questions’ type. I'm the wine in the face, perfume bottle against the wall type.”

“Illya can duck,” April insisted. “And, darling, the drama just makes it that much more exciting.”

Faustina jumped up and began to pace, the pen still flying across her fingers. "Yes, it was exciting. Addictive even. Every love affair a grand passion, a new adventure to rush headlong into.” Illya had been right in a way. Her restlessness of late had turned her thoughts to the past, stirring up old longings.

“My point exactly. Sounds like just what the doctor ordered.”

She sighed and looked at April, her heart in her eyes. “And when the perfume hit the wall, there was another handsome adventure already calling. I’d be consumed with the next grand passion, and the past would be dead, just some forgotten photos in an album.” The prospect of Illya as another page in her scrapbook was unthinkable.

“‘Le Roi est mort. Vive le Roi,’” April said gently.

“Exactly.”

April’s eyes were sympathetic. “I think I understand. Does it have to be that way?”

“I don't know, but it always has been.” She stopped pacing and massaged her thigh absently. “I never used to count the cost. Apparently I’ve grown up.”

April smiled mischievously. “That's one way of putting it.” She drew a square in the air with her index fingers, then ducked as Faustina lobbed the pen at her. “So no more adventure and passion?”

“UNCLE provides all the adventure I could want. As for the passion, there’s nothing like cold-water bathing,” Faustina said.

April shuddered expressively and slid off the desk. “Well, if I'm going to wire you into a dress, we'd better get going.” She grabbed her purse and linked her arm with Faustina's. “It’s too bad we're both on medical restrictions. We could have done a little fencing to work out your tension.”

“You only say that because you always win.”

“You could try throwing the foil at me,” April suggested.

“Ta gueule, A’.”

“Language, darling.”


	3. Chapter 3

Evening came, and the party began as a mellow, sophisticated affair, catering to the variety of tastes and temperaments among the personnel. The Mask Club provided the drinks and the jazz, and both were flowing smoothly. Knots of conversation formed under a haze of cigarette smoke.

Illya sat alone at a table nursing his second beer and shot. Word had spread that the Russian was in no mood for company, and the party ebbed and flowed around him. The solitude suited Illya’s state of mind. Napoleon would harass him if he skipped the festivities altogether, and he planned to remain only long enough to prevent that.

At least the jazz ensemble was in fine form. He closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the music. As the trumpeter finished a particularly inspired improvisation, he leaned over to comment, remembering too late that the seat next to him was empty. No shoulder to brush his. No large, grey eyes to hold his gaze. No one eager to hear his opinion and just as eager to argue with it.

He sipped his plum brandy and chased it down with the last of his beer. Even that was wrong. A new jazz venue usually meant a new wine to try, as they each attempted to refine the other’s tastes. How frustrating that the mind formed those associations. He didn't like when things became necessary for his comfort. Such things controlled a person, or worse, allowed him to be controlled by others.

More younger personnel had arrived. The ensemble played a popular standard, and the dance floor grew crowded. Across the room, a game of Pass The Orange was played with much laughter.

Napoleon took the chair next to Illya’s, placing a lager and a green bottle on the table with his usual flourish. “I asked Nick to set you up again, and he gave me the whole bottle. In the unlikely event someone else asks for slivovitz, he’ll know where to find it.”

Illya nodded his thanks and topped off his small glass.

Napoleon eyed the drinks distastefully. “What is that? A Kiev Boilermaker?”

“No,” Illya said, “a Lichtenstein.”

Napoleon shook his head, then surveyed the gymnasium. “For plans we hatched over sleeplessness and pain killers,” he said, “this turned out surprisingly well.”

“Don't give me a share of the credit. I was getting something to eat at that point in the conversation.”

“Ah, yes. You were quite unimpressed with our stroke of brilliance when you returned. Particularly the theme.” Napoleon gestured to the banner hung on the wall: ‘Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang.’

Illya’s frown deepened. “I tried to explain why it was in bad taste. April and Faustina found my objections ‘adorable.’ And Mark only wanted to talk us into joining his band.”

“Still unimpressed, I see. Well, there’s no reason to take your objections out on others. You had poor Ginny in tears.”

“I did not want my face painted,” he said. “Nor any other part of me.”

“She was just making her contribution to the festivities. You didn’t have bite the child’s head off.”

Illya eyed the large, red kisses painted on Napoleon’s check. “Is that any way for an acting chief to appear?”

“Only acting. I’m not quite ready to turn in my weapon yet, especially since I look so good wielding it.”

He pointed across the gymnasium to the panel honoring Section II. Two agents, one dark, the other fair, stood with guns drawn, a colored smoke bomb billowing behind them.

Illya said, “It would be more accurate to show us locked up in a cell trying to work out an escape.”

Napoleon grimaced. “Possibly, but hardly an inspiring image. There’s a silent auction for these, remember, and no one would pay to take that picture home.”

A stir at the entrance called their attention. Napoleon caught snatches of the excited conversations. “I think the band has arrived.”

As The Bird Watchers joined the ensemble on stage, Napoleon and Illya could see what had caused the commotion. April, always on the leading edge of fashion trends, was in a bohemian Sant ‘Angelo number. Most eyes, however, were on Faustina. Her dress, a sheath of multi-toned metal flowers and circles, left little to the imagination. With matching flower earrings and dark, glittering eye makeup, her outfit was an arresting departure from her usual conservative attire.

Rafe Jameson, tenor saxophone in the jazz ensemble, took the microphone. “Thank you for being a great audience. Before we hand the stage over to The Bird Watchers, we’re going to join forces for a special request from the boys in Section III.”

Mark slipped on a pair of sunglasses and put a harmonica to his lips. At the first notes, a ripple went through the crowd. Scattered applause identified the Enforcement & Intelligence personnel around the room. “I'm not scared of dying, and I don't really care,” Rafe sang. “If it's peace you find in dying, well then, let the time be near.” As the tempo increased, the audience overcame their surprise, and dance floor came alive.

Napoleon leaned over to be heard above the music. “Hmm, Faustina in Rabanne and very little else. This party just got more interesting.”

“She’s wearing a body stocking underneath.”

“Oh, undoubtedly, but the night is still young.”

“It’s not that kind of party.” She’s not that kind of girl, Illya wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat.

Napoleon winked. “That’s not the kind of dress that goes home alone. Kiss, kiss, and all that.”

Illya’s mood got blacker.

“Is there anything here you approve of?” Napoleon asked, taking a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the table.

“Very little. This song is morbid, particularly with Mr. Waverly still in hospital.”

“But getting released tomorrow,” Napoleon said in satisfaction. “I believe it’s healthy to face our fears. You know, laugh at the darkness, rather than scowl at it.”

The song ended to appreciative applause, and the jazz ensemble left The Bird Watchers to start their set. “Please welcome our own April Dancer,” Mark announced. The audience greeted her enthusiastically as she stepped up to the mike, remembering the bullet she had taken in the shoulder in the Waverly Affair.

The percussion set down a steady, rhythmic beat. A haunting strum of the guitar followed, then April sang, “I was five, and he was six. We rode on horses made of sticks.” A wave of unease stirred the crowd at yet another provocative song choice, but April’s smile reassured them. “He wore black, and I wore white. He would always win the fight. Bang, bang, he shot me down. Bang, bang, I hit the ground.” April belted her defiant anthem, sweeping the audience along.

“She's quite a woman,” Napoleon said.

Illya watched Faustina as she played the keyboard, the beer and slivovitz overpowering his natural reticence. “If by that you mean obtrusive. Unorthodox. Infuriating. This whole night bears her stamp. And that dress. Not content to be a conversation piece, she takes the stage and turns herself into a spectacle. I can't imagine how she convinced Rafe to let the ensemble play that mongrelized rock fusion she insists is legitimate jazz. She’ll be insufferable about that victory. I can already see it. There’ll be no living with her.”

Napoleon tore his appreciative gaze from April and looked at Illya oddly. “You seem to be better acquainted with her than I realized. Anything I should know before I plan the rest of my night?”

Illya shook his head. “Of course not. I’m about to leave anyway.”

“A pity to miss all this, but suit yourself.” Napoleon clapped Illya on the back and rose. “I’m going to find a better vantage point to appreciate the, ah, band.” He walked off toward the stage.

“Bang, bang, that awful sound. Bang, bang, my baby shot me down.” Whistles and cheers punctuated the wild applause at the song’s finish. Despite his promised departure, Illya remained seated, his eyes glued to Faustina for the rest of the set. Her delight in their performance of “Ride My See-Saw” was palpable, and Mark repeatedly turned to grin at her. They had recently attended a Moody Blues concert together, after Illya had declined her invitation. He watched their exchange of glances, remembering Napoleon’s words about her not going home alone. If his partner had plans in that direction, he might find he had competition in Mark.

Faustina danced as she played, and Illya could see when she began to favor her injured leg. Few weeks had passed since she had taken a knife in the thigh during the Waverly Affair. Illya tried to push the memory away and failed. He had been struggling with his own opponent when he saw the blade flash and strike home. From his vantage he'd been certain her artery had been severed, that he'd be forced to watch her bleed out. The despair and desperation he’d felt returned like a boomerang, and he drew a sharp breath at their intensity. From those depths he had risen to the height of relief and elation when he reached her and saw the attack was not fatal. He had been off balance ever since.

When the set finished, Mark thanked the crowd on behalf of the band. Then, pulling out a vial of breath spray, he pumped it in his mouth ostentatiously. “Get your money out, ladies. The Kissing Booth is about to open. Remember it's all in a good cause, so if I see you more than once, that will just prove how charitable you are.”

As the crowd buzzed excitedly, Faustina wrested the mike from Mark’s hand and shoved him playfully offstage. “I want to thank Phil and his team from Section VIII for the decorations. Phil, where are you?” She shaded her eyes and smiled as the crowd parted and pointed to the shy tech. “Go get him, April. He’s our first victim.” The crowded hooted as April took a red-faced, grinning Phil by the hand and led him to the booth.

Illya's seat afforded him a clear view of the Kissing Booth and those gathering around it in eager anticipation. Phil had the look of a soldier at the Hollywood Canteen who’d just won a kiss from a starlet. In succession, April and Faustina took Phil by the face and planted chaste but showy kisses on his nervous lips. The onlookers cheered, and Phil wandered off in a delighted haze. Illya decided it was time to leave; he threw back his glass of slivovitz and headed for the doors.

Napoleon took command of the booth. He announced, “Before we begin, I think it’s my duty to do some quality control.”

“If you insist, mate, but there’s plenty here who can vouch for my talents,” Mark said, smiling as Napoleon grimaced.

“He means us, darling,” April said and stepped into Napoleon’s arms. She gave him a long, passionate kiss, amid a chorus of whistles and catcalls. “How was it?” someone asked as they reluctantly separated.

Napoleon grinned. “We should double the price.” He turned to Faustina, raking her with his eyes. “I feel like I’ve been presented a trophy.”

“You’re about to feel like you’ve won Le Mans,” Faustina answered.

Illya was almost at the doors when her words registered. He spun around in time to see Faustina entwine her arms around Napoleon and press her lips to his. Illya had seen them kiss before. Missions had called for it, as had that Twister Tournament several Christmases ago. While those kisses had produced pangs of something which he hadn’t cared to explore, none had affected him like this one. Faustina clung to Napoleon like she had to that French director when the paparazzi caught them in the act. The photo had haunted his dreams in recent days, dreams in which he was the filmmaker blissfully throwing his career away. He didn’t know who angered him more, Faustina for deliberately goading him or Napoleon for taking his place. He was beyond rational thought. He only knew he needed to separate them.

Illya began to work his way through the crowd of revelers. April spotted his approach, her gratified expression turning to one of alarm when she saw murder in his eyes. “All right, you two, pace yourselves,” she said, a note of warning in her tone, while she made frantic eye movements in Illya’s direction.

“Oh, no. Here’s trouble,” Mark whispered.

“Do you think he'll cause a scene?”

“He who?”

April followed Mark’s gaze to the back of the gymnasium, away from Illya. Lisa Rogers was bearing down on them, her face grim. Mark grabbed April’s arm and steered her into position behind the booth. “As you’ve all been assured of a quality product, I now declare this Kissing Booth open. Who’s for a snog?”

Fists clenched in readiness, Illya closed in on his targets. He anticipated the coming encounter with relish, running scenarios from the subtle to the spectacular, then watched in disbelief as Lisa Rogers intervened. Faustina and Napoleon broke apart and stepped aside with Waverly’s secretary, all trace of romantic passion extinguished. Denied his confrontation, Illya halted at the edge of the dance floor and seethed in frustration.

The three heads bent in close, tense conversation, then Faustina turned and scanned the party anxiously. Illya knew instinctively that she was looking for him. Her face was pale, a ghostly contrast to her dark makeup, and a wave of concern carried away his anger. Her searching eyes found his, and in their grey depths were need, relief and something else he dared not name. He held her gaze, basking in it, feeling it become necessary for his comfort. “Chyort,” he whispered and moved quickly to reach her.

“What happened?” Illya asked Napoleon as he joined them. He stood beside Faustina and took her hand without the others noticing. Her fingers trembled slightly in his grasp.

“Mr. Waverly’s in emergency surgery,” Napoleon said tersely. “They discovered a—“ He turned to Lisa.

“The doctor called it an abdominal aortic aneurysm.”

Illya sucked in a breath through his teeth. Faustina looked at him questioningly, and his nod was a pledge to tell her everything he knew.

“I’m going to the hospital,” Napoleon said. “Don’t let the word out yet.”

“No, we’ll go,” Illya said, squeezing Faustina’s hand. “There is a high probability that you’ll be needed here.”

Napoleon looked at him, his eyes bleak, then nodded. “Lisa will be waiting for any updates from you. She’ll let me know if…if there’s anything I need to know.” Napoleon took a deep breath, then pasted his charming grin in place and rejoined the party. Illya watched him go in silent admiration.

“There’s a car waiting for you. Mrs. Waverly is there already,” Lisa said. She looked disapprovingly at Faustina’s dress. “You’re not wearing that to the hospital, are you?”

Faustina looked down as if seeing the Rabanne for the first time. “Dammit,” she said.

“Does it matter?” Illya demanded.

Lisa frowned. “I suppose not. I'll be monitoring Channel D,” she said and walked away.

Faustina released Illya’s hand and headed out of the gymnasium toward the elevator. “He can't die” she said. “Not like this. Not after everything we went through to get him back.”

Illya searched for words to reassure her but found none. “Let’s get our coats and head out.”

“Lisa was right. I need to change first.” She pressed the call button.

“Why? Mrs. Waverly won’t care.”

“Of course, she won’t. It’s not that.”

“The matrons? Let them try to kick you out,” he said fiercely. The doors opened, and he followed her in.

“That’s not it either.” She pressed the button for Level 3, then met his eyes defiantly. “Well, dammit, if you must know, I can’t sit down in this dress.”

Illya stared at her, open-mouthed and incredulous. Then, before she could react, he pressed her into the corner and captured her mouth in a quick, hard kiss. Just as quickly, he retreated. A parade of emotions passed across Faustina’s face. Illya waited for her response, not knowing if she would yell, laugh, or, heaven help them, cross the elevator to give him back a bit of his own. If she did the latter, Waverly or no, he didn’t think they’d be at the hospital any time soon.

After a long moment, she tasted her lips. "Slivovitz,” she said, shaking her head. “Not even a nice Rioja? Obviously I have more work to do.”

He chuckled. “If tonight's repertoire was any indication, so do I.”

Her slow smile and the familiar light of battle in her eyes eased his tightly-strung nerves. For a moment, all was right in his world.

The elevator doors opened, bringing them back to sober reality. Faustina’s smile turned rueful. “I’ll need help getting out of this. April wired me in pretty snugly.”

“Come on. I’ll get my pliers.”


	4. Chapter 4

On the drive to the hospital, Illya explained the grim facts about Waverly’s condition. Faustina sat beside him, having exchanged the Rabanne for a pant suit, and absorbed his words in silence. Then, with the nervous energy that accompanied her distress, she launched into a vigorous defense of jazz fusion. Illya let her talk, her emotional and often illogical rationales pouring over him like a balm. As they navigated the hospital, he kept his hand on the small of her back, refusing to deny himself that subtle contact. Nodding to the Section III agent stationed at the door, they entered a private waiting room. Mrs. Waverly sat in an armchair knitting something pink and unidentifiable.

“Aunt,” Faustina cried and bent to embrace the elderly woman.

“My dear, hello. Do mind my knitting.” Her delicately-lined face was dignified and composed. “Good evening, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Mrs. Waverly,” he said with a nod.

“Isn’t your dance tonight?” She shook her head. “Really, there was no need to pull you away.”

“Nonsense, of course, we’d come,” Faustina said as she sat on the arm of the chair. “You shouldn't be alone at a time like this.”

“It’s preferable to being fussed over by a pack of long faces,” she replied matter-of-factly, then drew attention to her knitting. “I've grown quite accustomed to these sorts of waits in my lifetime.”

Illya said, “If you'd rather we go, please say so. We’ll understand.”

“You are welcome to stay. I would not expect much fuss from any of Alexander’s agents. On the contrary, I usually find you to be a steady, comforting presence,” Mrs. Waverly replied, then pursed her lips as Faustina toyed with the edge of her knitting. “Please, dear, you’ll cause me to drop a stitch. Besides, young man, aren’t you the one who likes to blend in?”

“Yes, Aunt,” Faustina said, before Illya could respond to the unexpected sally. “Soon we won’t even know he’s here. Furniture is one of his specialties.” There was something proprietary about her amused glance, and it did strange things to his chest.

“Speaking of furniture, perhaps you could sit on some properly.” Mrs. Waverly shooed her off the arm of the chair. “Really, what would your grandmother say?”

“Yes, Aunt,” Faustina repeated meekly, but with twitching lips. She took a seat on the couch beside Illya. “Would you tell us more of what happened? Uncle Alex seemed in the pink when I saw him yesterday.”

Mrs. Waverly continued knitting, Continental fashion, hands low in her lap. “It was all the work of Providence. This evening Alexander told me of strange pains. The doctors were inclined to pooh-pooh it, but if it was enough for Alexander to complain, I knew it must be serious. I was insistent that they not release him without running thorough tests. That's when they made their discovery and whisked him off to surgery.”

“Brava, dearest,” Faustina said. “He's lucky to have you as his champion.”

Mrs. Waverly colored faintly. “Nonsense. I don't believe in luck. Alexander is precisely where he's meant to be. We could easily have gone home none the wiser, but Providence had other plans. Alexander has more to do in this life, I'm certain of it.”

Not for the first time, Illya marveled at the stalwart faith and intrepid spirit of their chief’s wife. In respect of her preferences, he steered the conversation to more light-hearted topics and asked about her grandson Marvin. Mrs. Waverly seemed gratified by the question and related several chatty stories of her grandchildren. Eventually, a volunteer came by with a snack cart. Illya and Faustina had coffee while Mrs. Waverly sipped tea and raised amused brows at Illya’s plateful of snacks. Conversation tapered off as they ate, and they fell into a reflective silence. Mrs. Waverly resumed her knitting. Illya read a magazine. Faustina turned on the radio.

Illya was not surprised when, after a time, Faustina began to pace. She had always hated stakeouts, much preferring active surveillance. If there were the possibility of donning a nurse’s uniform and being in the operating theater, she would be there. Watching her stride across the length of the room, he considered how best to suggest they wait out the surgery elsewhere.

“Do stop prowling like a caged animal,” Mrs. Waverly requested. “Are you certain you don’t want to return to your dance?”

Faustina flopped back onto the couch. “Of course not.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to read aloud. I know Alexander has appreciated it during your visits.”

“I’ll see if the hospital library is open,” Faustina said, hopping to her feet. “What would you prefer? Dickens? Austen?”

“Midcult. Her newest one, if they have it, but Pieces of Fate will be fine.”

Faustina pretended to be scandalized. “Really, Aunt, what would my grandmother say?”

Mrs. Waverly’s lips curved. “I suggest you pay a visit to the chapel, as well. A little time with the Almighty will do you good.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what my grandmother would say,” she teased, then threw up her hands at Mrs. Waverly’s pointed look. “I go, I go.”

Mrs. Waverly shook her head, smiling fondly, as the door closed behind Faustina. “Just as cheeky as ever. I warned Alexander that she’d lead him a merry dance, but he was adamant about her joining UNCLE.”

“He has excellent instincts about such things,” Illya said, surprised by this confidence. “Miss Pemberley has proven to be a fine agent.”

“So he’s told me,” she said, then looked at Illya archly. “Which makes me wonder, who is it she has dancing?”

Illya could think of no appropriate reply. To his relief, Mrs. Waverly returned to her knitting, and he selected a new magazine. Twenty minutes and two magazines later, Illya could not seem find a comfortable position on the couch. His eyes frequently traveled to the door.

“Is that an interesting article, young man?”

Illya tore his eyes from the door and looked at Mrs. Waverly in confusion.

“You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes,” she said, gazing at him with motherly kindness. “Mr. Kuryakin...Illya. There are times for one to blend in to the furniture. And then there are times for one to dance.”

He sighed and allowed himself a small, self-deprecating smile. “Will you be all right for a while?”

“Right as rain. I'm well occupied, and there is an agent at the door. And in the unlikely event of a threat, I have my knitting needles.” Her eyes twinkled. “They can kill a man six different ways. A gift from Alexander.”

Illya glanced at the innocent-looking tools clicking industriously in her lap, and a chuckle escaped him. “Excuse me, then, ma’am.” He made for the door.

“She needs a good cry, young man,” Mrs. Waverly added. “Don't let her return without one.”

Illya found the small, narrow chapel on the first floor. A table of votive candles stood by the door. One had recently been lit. Illya took a match, and catching the fire from Faustina’s candle, lit another. “For Alexander Waverly,” he whispered.

Faustina was kneeling at the prayer rail at the front of the chapel. Not wanting to disturb her, Illya sat down in a pew toward the rear. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of beeswax and wood polish and the tiniest trace of incense. Her murmured entreaties floated back to him, a mix of extemporaneous petitions and High Church prayers. Some he recognized as Orthodox, which they could both trace to a grandmother’s knee. Such were the strange threads that connected them. As exhaustion began to overtake him, strands of white and red merged into a fuzzy pink something in the lap of an elderly woman.

Her prayers completed, Faustina came and stood at the edge of Illya’s pew. He opened one eye at her, then patted the seat next to him. After a slight hesitation, she sat down. His arm, which lay along the back of the pew, came to rest on her shoulders. He started to hum quietly, and she leaned into him to listen. Illya took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and sang, “You'll search and you'll search, but you'll never find no way on earth to gain peace of mind.” She smiled in wonder as he did his best Elvis impersonation. “Take your troubles to the chapel. Get down on your knees and pray. Then your burdens will be lighter, and you'll surely find the way.”

She was chuckling as he finished. He said, “I also do ‘Viva Las Vegas,’ but this hardly seems the appropriate place.” Faustina’s chuckles turned to peals of laughter, and she clapped her free hand over her mouth. She laughed until tears came to her eyes, and the storm finally broke. Illya gathered her to his chest as she wept. She cried like she argued, noisily, gustily, holding nothing back. Great, shuddering sobs wracked her body, and he rocked her gently, murmuring half-remembered phrases from his childhood. Then as quickly as it came, the storm passed, and only watery hiccups remained.

He offered her his handkerchief, and she sat up to mop her face. The linen came away stained black and shimmering with glitter. “Oh, no, my makeup. I’m a mess.”

“I know.” He pulled a dampened washcloth from beside him and smiled at her surprise. “I passed a housekeeping trolley on the way here.” Cradling her chin, he gently wiped her face until all the cosmetics were gone. “There,” he said. “Perfect.”

Blue eyes held grey. Faustina was the first to drop her gaze. “I’ve ruined your coat.”

He looked down at the damp, glittering stain that marred the front of his jacket. “It won't be the first dry cleaning bill you’ve paid for,” he said.

“Nor the last,” she replied.

Those three words were more potent than the slivovitz. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. Minutes passed; they remained in place, content to let their breathing align and their disordered thoughts settle. Eventually, Faustina sighed. “Mrs. Waverly will wonder where we are.”

Illya didn’t move. “She is fine. Mr. Waverly specially commissioned her knitting needles.”

“How romantic,” Faustina said with a chuckle.

Illya felt her laughter resonate throughout his body, and he became uncomfortably aware that they sat in a chapel, the twelve apostles staring down at them from stained glass. Reluctantly, he pulled back. “We should go.”

Faustina had yet to get a book, so they went in search of the library. It proved to be closed for the night, but a cart at the door held a few returned volumes, including Jacqueline Midcult’s latest potboiler. On their return to the waiting room, Mrs. Waverly regarded Faustina’s clean, red-rimmed eyes in satisfaction. Shades of Night was a surprisingly taut thriller about a former spy seeking to start a new life; Jacqueline’s writing had matured. During Chapter Two, Mrs. Waverly put her knitting aside and leaned her head back. Soon she was sleeping.

Illya snaked an arm behind Faustina and pulled her close. “What are you doing?” she asked, even as she settled more comfortably against him.

“Dancing,” he said. Faustina raised her brows at him, but he only smiled mysteriously. She continued to read aloud until her yawns punctuated each paragraph. He took the book from her hands and drew her head against his shoulder. “Get some rest.”

She closed her eyes. Soon her breathing became steady. Illya felt his own lids begin to droop. He bent to whisper in her ear. “I’m sorry I was an ass.” At first he thought she hadn’t heard him, but then she snuggled closer. “Takes one to know one,” she murmured. He pressed a kiss into her hair, then laid his own head back.

They were awakened some time later by a knock on the door and the entrance of a nurse. Her business-like demeanor gave them no hint of what her news would be.

“The surgery was successful,” she said, pausing to let them absorb her words. She turned to Mrs. Waverly. “Your husband is in recovery. You’ll be able to see him in a little while.”

"Thank Heavens,” Mrs. Waverly declared, tears in her eyes. She dabbed at them with a tiny square of lace and linen, then peppered the nurse with questions.

Faustina collapsed back against the couch in relief. Illya squeezed her hand. “I will call headquarters with the good news. Then I should talk with the surgeon so I can make a complete report to Napoleon,” he said.

“I’d like stay here until Uncle Alex is out of recovery.”

“I understand. But report back to headquarters afterwards.” She looked at him quizzically. “Senior agent,” he said, his eyes intense. “Please.”

“All right.”

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss in her palm. Then, with a few polite words to Mrs. Waverly, he left.


	5. Chapter 5

UNCLE Headquarters NY was subdued in the predawn hours, the urgent pace of activity picked up by branches on the other side of the globe. The redhead manning the reception desk yawned as she handed Faustina her badge. “Too bad you missed the rest of the party,” she said, curiosity in her tired eyes.

“Yes, it was. THRUSH is no respecter of our festivities,” Faustina improvised. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

The girl giggled. “I spent all my mad money on the Kissing Booth.”

“Well, the Save Our Souls Mission appreciates your sacrifice,” Faustina said dryly, wondering again what Priscilla’s reaction would be if she discovered just how the donation was raised.

“Oh, Mr. Kuryakin left this for you. I'm to tell him when you’ve arrived.” Faustina accepted a sealed note. Tearing it open, she found two scrawled lines: ‘Report to the party,’ and under that ‘Please.’

Faustina fought the urge to run straight to the gymnasium. Instead she headed up to her office, debating the wisdom of accepting the invitation. It could not truly be considered a directive, but she would not put it past Illya to come find her. Better to beard the lion in his den. Having given herself permission, she freshened her face and went down.

An album was playing in the gymnasium when she entered. She recognized it immediately. Days of Future Passed, side two. The party had ended some time ago, and the room was empty. Only the dance floor was lit, leaving the rest shrouded in darkness.

"Hello?” she called, feeling strangely vulnerable standing alone in the light.

At her words, Illya stepped out of the shadows. His blue eyes held hers as he approached. Her nerves were tighter than guitar strings, and with each step he strummed them into dizzying vibration.

“You’re late,” he said, the words a caress.

It took a moment to find her voice. “Only by a few minutes.”

Illya shook his head. “By a few years.”

The track changed, and a new song began. “Dance with me,” he said, pulling her into his embrace. With skillful steps, he led her around the floor, their bodies turning and swaying, as the Moody Blues sang of nights in white satin. Illya laid his check against hers. His breath teased her ear, sending a frisson down her spine. She sighed in pleasure.

At the sound of her sigh, Illya brought their dance to a halt. He reached up and with his fingertips gently traced the outline of her face. Faustina held her breath when he paused at her jawline for the briefest moment. Then his hand continued its exploration below her ear to the nape of her neck. Slowly he drew her to him and covered her mouth with his.

It was unlike his kiss in the elevator. This was a soft, tentative brush of his lips across hers. Illya drew back slightly, gauging her reaction. Faustina gripped his arm tightly and leaned in. Hunger shone in his eyes, and with a groan, he captured her lips in earnest.

Illya had been too modest about his kissing expertise. Already she felt her control slipping. She tried to consider the kiss dispassionately, as she did with Napoleon’s. Those were the polished performances of a virtuoso. Illya’s kiss was altogether different. Natural. Elemental. Familiar, yet not as she imagined it would be. And she had imagined it often.

She was holding part of herself in reserve, and he knew it. His fingers massaged the nape of her neck. His lips became more demanding. It had been so long since she’d given her whole self to a kiss. She was tired of living a half-life. Her restlessness cried out to be satisfied, if only for a few minutes. Casting sense and scruples aside, she opened the floodgates and gave herself completely to his embrace.

Illya had once said he burst into flames very easily; it was the truth. Two passionate natures converged. After years of restraint, they were starving for this moment. They devoured each other, hearts pounding, blood racing. Rational thought retreated, and there was only sensation, wild and primal. His arm around her waist, hers about his neck, they clung together, drunk with need, pressing ever closer, yet not close enough to satisfy.

‘Oh, how I love you.’ The lyric repeated, intruding on her bliss. In a moment of devastating clarity, Faustina could see the outcome of this kiss stretching before them. The taxi ride, the apartment, the affair. And in the shadowy distance, the arguments, the flying glassware, the turn of a scrapbook page, and the faceless figure of Illya’s successor. She couldn't do that to him. She wouldn't. She loved him too much.

With an anguished cry, she pushed him away. “I can't do this. Not again. Not with you.” She ran off the dance floor, plunging into the darkness, and was gone.

Illya remained standing where she left him, his breath ragged, his face like stone. The album’s final track, "The Late Lament," woke him from his stupor. ‘Impassioned lovers wrestle as one. Lonely man cries for love and has none.’ He tore the record from the turntable, the needle screeching across its surface. Then he hurled the album across the gymnasium. It found its mark, the party banner that hung on the far wall. ‘Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang.’ As it crashed and shattered, Illya strode from the dance floor and was lost to the darkness.


End file.
